I like to imagine North Haven as a hub at the center of the world. A glowing dot on a map, it sends out pulses of energy, drawing people to it.
Most answer the call, at one time or another. Maybe just a day sail through the Thorofare, or a few years as an Island Institute fellow. I touched its rocky soil once and then spent seven years finding my way back, needing on some molecular level to call it home.
People come and people go. The lack of housing gets some, or new job opportunities. Being tethered to a ferry schedule can get old. Some find themselves at the beginning or end of a relationship, and that draws them away. Some leave to escape generational expectations.
The shared experience of island life does create an especially fertile environment for friendships that can endure geographical shifts. I’ve experienced this firsthand. A former islander, one who became a fast friend in the five years she spent here in the late aughts and early 2010s, recently returned to the Midcoast area. And like a tesseract, it seemed like no time at all had passed when we reunited.
There was a fair amount of reminiscing, of course. The island has changed in the two decades I’ve been there. We remembered long nights at the Coal Wharf, now closed, where we both worked but also spent countless summer evenings chatting, drinking, and sometimes dancing. We expressed disbelief at the fact that we used to have to sit at the ferry terminal for hours to get a line number, making small talk or hiding behind a book. We shared memories, hazy with idealized golden light, of plays, dance parties, and mainland excursions.
Another friend, who had visited North Haven but hadn’t lived there, unearthed photos of the three of us from 2009. There we were, somehow brighter hued than we are now but also less fully formed, posing with a vinyl record in the Coal Wharf bar. We can’t remember the significance of the record, but the significance of our being back together, nearly 20 years later, was felt by all.
What is it about island life that fosters this kind of enduring connection? Maybe there’s an element of trauma bonding, of “can you believe it?” that ties us together. Or maybe it’s the inherent closeness and limitations imposed by geographic isolation: much like a summer camp or college campus, our dining and socializing options are limited. We were ALL at the Coal Wharf. We ALL went to Lung Fest or the Street Dance or whatever was available.
Or there’s something altered about us that makes it easy to find each other again, and for the connection between us to feel fated. Per Rachel Field’s 1926 poem “If Once You Have Slept On an Island,” also immortalized in Jaime Wyeth’s 1996 painting of the same name:
…Oh! You won’t know why and you can’t say how
Such a change upon you came
But once you have slept on an island
You’ll never be the same.
Like weathered trees on a cliff edge, gnarled and twisted by ocean winds, islanders—long term or temporary—are shaped by their time offshore. Our resiliency, our ability to efficiently complete a long list of mainland chores between boats, our willingness to change plans at a moment’s notice when boats are canceled or line numbers get changed, these qualities make us the kind of people who can happily pick up a friendship after a year, or a decade. We understand time and distance. We understand that circumstances don’t always allow for physical proximity, and we know how to make the most of our opportunities. And for those of us who have been forever changed by our time on North Haven, knowing that we can instantly reconnect with old friends makes departures and arrivals all the sweeter.
Courtney Naliboff teaches, writes, and plays music on North Haven. She may be reached at courtney.naliboff@gmail.com.
What TO Read Next...
